I tread lightly on the spiral staircase, my lightweight boots despite their design are heavy and clumpy for sleuthing. My phone’s ready in my hand. The door to my room is slightly ajar, which is a silly mistake to make so I guess it’s deliberate. Not to be caught, no one wants that, but so they could hear if somebody enters. But you’d never hear an intruder with sex that loud. I’ve arrived at the right time. I hold the phone up and film, which is everybody’s go-to now when something violent, dangerous or peculiar happens. Film now, think later. We’ve lost our gumption. Our compassion. Our instincts to react. The instinct now is to film now, think and feel later.
A hairy, muscular bum pounds away between a pair of bronzed lithe legs up in the air, her thighs held in place, impressively wide, by her own manicured fingernails. Shellac or gel, I can’t tell. Wonderful flexibility and how kind of her to hold herself open for him. A gentlewoman in the sack. I recognise those nails, those legs. It is Becky.
Ah. And so this must be Donnacha’s ass. Nice to meet you.
Now that I’ve discovered my landlords, I’m a little less smug at having caught them, and more disgusted. It’s their property but it’s my personal space and this is a violation. If I could issue them a ticket, I would. I’d smack it against his hairy arse, hoping the sticky bit would burn like hell when he pulls it off. I lower my phone and go back downstairs quietly, and wait for them to finish, which they do, loudly and with great gusto. So proud of their clever selves. Then I go right back up the steps again, this time as normal, just a pair of heavy tired feet after a hard day’s work. I’ve given them time to at least disentangle themselves so I hope they’ve covered up. I push the door open, making sure I register surprise on my face that first my door is unlocked and secondly my discovery.
Jesus, Allegra, I thought you were out tonight, Becky says, which I think is an amusing defence. How dare I intrude. She’s wrapped in a blanket, my turquoise fleece blanket. On her sweaty naked body. Her face is red and flustered, probably mostly from the sex and not as much shame as I think is necessary. To my own surprise, my response is of genuine shock because the ass doesn’t belong to Donnacha. The man that’s not Donnacha is less bothered about me than Becky is, in fact not bothered at all. He takes his time making a move, an amused expression on his face. He bends over to pick up his clothes, hairy asshole and ball sack in my face.
Could you give us a minute please, she asks, irritated by my presence, as if I don’t have the social cop-on to leave and give them privacy. I step outside and go back downstairs to the gym. I sit on the rower. Rock back and forth gently, thinking.
The man who’s not Donnacha passes me by, dressed in an expensive suit, still smirking. His aftershave almost chokes me. And then Becky arrives with my bed sheets and duvet cover all bundled messily under her arm. The assertive tone again. Allegra, I would appreciate it if you could keep this to yourself. There are … things … not everything is as it … it’s private, she finally says firmly, her decision made not to go any further.
Sure, I tell her, rocking back and forward on the rower. So about the rent, I say, would you like to talk about that now or another time.
She can’t believe I’ve said it. She just can’t. As if my words in that tone, in this moment are worse than what I just walked in on her doing. She looks at me differently. With dislike. Disgust. Loser. Weirdo. The rent stays as it is she says, giving me a firm look, and all is understood. Loud and clear. The rent stays the same, and I say nothing about the hairy ass that didn’t belong to Donnacha. Not that I would have anyway. I’ll wash these, she adds about the bed sheets, walking self-consciously from the gym, probably still tender.
I make up a new bed, throw my favourite fleece blanket to the corner of the room. I have to open the window wide to get rid of the smell of his aftershave but it’s so heavy it feels like it has sunk into every fibre of the room. I finally get in to bed, feeling so cold from an entire day outside and evening hanging out in the park, but too tired now to take a shower.
I watch the video of them a few times. I filmed first and now I’m trying to figure out how I feel about it.
Six
I wake to the sound of the children screaming in the garden. It’s 10 a.m. on a Saturday and I’m glad I’ve managed to switch off the Monday-to-Friday internal alarm clock and sleep so late. I would have assumed, considering what I discovered in my bedroom last night, that Becky would be treating me more kindly. Breakfast in bed, no noisy children under my window, a reduced rent. Perhaps she’s trying to get rid of me. Six-year-old Cillín is the loudest. I bet he’s wearing his princess dress now. I can hear the tone in his voice, the character he becomes when he’s wearing dresses. I sit up and glimpse outside. Yes. Purple Rapunzel dress, a long blonde wig and a Viking helmet. Atop the playhouse waving his sword in the air, announcing the impending head-severing of his brothers.